A Hill
by TheFireWasEverywhere
Summary: Maybe he was destined to save the world? No, that isn't it. He was destined to be in this church forever, or so he thought. His faith in a way of life was gone. He would turn to an lonely, wise old man in the far future. But in the end, he doesn't know his destiny; nobody does. AU.


He sat on the floor of a dusty church in the outskirts of Konoha. Not to pray, but to think. To think of what had happened long ago. It felt like two weeks had passed; it had been two years. He remembers being part of the crowd at first. He was so devoted to them before. He thought he would give his life to their purposes, his purpose at the time. He almost did. To him, they were the ones who cared enough to say his name.

Nobody gives attention to orphan kids anymore. No one wants to hear the same heartbreaking stories that had repeated itself many times over time. A new generation of orphan's kids was upon the lands. It was always orphan who were given unique visits by the local toy shop, or in some cases, the Hokage himself would visit them to provide the attention they were losing out of it. The caretakers sweet talked the kid to think that their life wasn't a ruin of what it could've been. But now, they had no one to tell them these little lies. They have only a house over them and semi-full stomachs — a generation of orphans who didn't matter.

He sometimes forgets, his name. He had never heard his name said so many times. He had his names chanted so much during that night that it's made no sense anymore. It didn't sound like words anymore but sounds that you heard as a child when listing to grown-up talk. Their speak sounded like as if it came from another world. Two men talking about a girl was 56 divided by 2 to him. Too hard to understand because he wasn't given the knowledge to know and because he was too young even to start thinking like them. After the grownups leave to their business, he would sit on the floor, like he was, and think, like he was, about the meaning and try to remember how they said it but can't, like him.

"Is my name Fuck?" That was a good one — a pretty silly thing to say in a church. A beautiful genuine laugh echoed the church.

Yes, he could still smile and laugh. He wasn't an Uchiha. But maybe he was? Maybe he was the grandson of Madara Uchiha and would marry a blue haired girl in the end. His power would destroy whoever dare try to hurt the people he loved, and with the power of love, or whatever, he would change the face of the earth to a magical land with no evil, no pain. A cute little novel that would be; an immature book made by a person who had never felt pain in his life, but only warmness of love and the smell of a bright future. He did not have that. He doesn't want to cry but does. He wishes he was the blonde idiot in the books that had a brave smile to show to everyone.

Maybe that was possible? Maybe something would allow him to run again. He could give the peace sign instead of the bird. He had to find out the hard way to find out about that problem. Someone one visiting the abandoned church, a simple peace sign as a welcoming gesture would be good, right? A fast exited was expected.

Most of his fingers work. The fire must have cursed them out too as the fire final letter of recognizing, the fire damaged his nerves to throw the finger to all them as the last message.

'I hate you all as much as this burnt hot dog does.' The burnt hot dog being himself. He's wrapped like one, too. Most his skin was back to doing its job, but not looking good doing it. The sight wasn't ugly but cause question. Nothing of those question was ever asked because nobody saw them; his ugly skin was hidden behind layers of bandages. Replacing the bandages every week took away money from his self-made budget of food and more food. Rent wasn't a problem anymore. He could eat all the food he needs and also have enough for whatever he wanted. He didn't want anything.

He could feel it coming, and it was coming fast.

He had no time to cover his mouth as the first painful coughs came out. Some coughs later and he could breathe again, but that wouldn't late too long. The feeling of red wetness on his broken hands. Another problem caused by that night. Knowing the pain was coming was worse than the feeling itself. The pain felt horrible. It didn't happen to offend, but when it did, it bit with hateful venom. His legs became weak as a new wave of coughs raced out of his mouth. With a final cough coming out, he had another chance to breathe. He fell to one to kneel. It made him feel like who he was — a believer in Izari. Tears dripped down his cheek. He let the tears of pain fall on the dusty floor of his home.

Five longs breaths were what the doctors. Five longs breaths later, and he felt like he had a chance to live again. Losing control of his lungs to blood was a familiar feeling he had to endure. He couldn't go on for a week without a coughing fit or lose his voice; his dark lungs would let out blood, which would mix with the saliva, smear around his lips. It was getting worse, he thought.

He stumbled to the old but sturdy podium in the center of the small building. The preacher would spit his lines in the middle, surrounded by his people, not so many, but enough to make him feel not like a nobody, but a saver; Important — a fake. The physically broken boy put his back against the podium and sat. He couldn't stand, not after that coughing fit, it was that bad.

The sun shined to him through the large window from the sides of the building. He was fighting the urge to sleep, he still had things to do, like cleaning the dirty floor, cleaning the windows, and cleaning whatever was not cleaned when cleaning the things that needed to be clean wasn't clean enough — a lot of cleaning he wanted to do. Cleaning was all he could do, and he was damn good at it, Believe It! It wasn't a job, but it filled him with a motive. For the past two years, he had been cleaning his oversized home; this place was the only thing on his name, so you bet your ass that he was going to keep it clean.

His battle with sleep was a losing one: his body would admit defeat, but his mind would jump his body with energy. But his mind at one point gave up and let him nap. It always ends like this, with his head doing all the work. His head was the only part of him that worked as it did before his life changed. In his head, his entire next day was already planned. Cleaning, going to the markets, come home, read and sleep.

Oh, how much he wishes he had friends.

Soon,


End file.
